


letting go together

by notharry



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, Angst, Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, kenny is probably ooc??? (oh well), self-destructive behaviour, stan is dead im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notharry/pseuds/notharry
Summary: Kenny’s grief comes and goes in intense bursts, every once in a while. Then it’s gone again.Whereas Kyle’s sadness is constant, each day wearing him down a little further.At least they have each other.





	1. you found me

**Author's Note:**

> so in this AU Stan and Kenny were best friends as kids. Kyle met Stan when they were older.
> 
>  
> 
> and i've rated it as explicit bc in future chapters there's probs gonna be some nsfw stuff BUT i don't understand the difference between mature sexual content and explicit??? so just to be safe

Kenny didn’t cry at the funeral.

People looked at him as if he was crazy, stood clear-eyed, blank-faced beside the coffin of his best friend. The same question – _how are you doing? –_ was asked repeatedly. Every time, Kenny gave the same words in answer - _I’ll be just fine._

All he felt was anger. Yeah, his grief was _there_ , he could feel it, but it seemed to be buried underneath something, easy to ignore. Which is unlike the familiar feeling of rage which clawed at his chest, desperate to escape and cause as much damage at possible. That’s all he had wanted to do at first, is break things.

He’s not exactly sure what he was angry _at._ Firstly, it was the driver of the other car. Once Kenny found out that he had died too, he was angry at fire. The car had erupted into flames, something to do with a fuel leak according to the police. Every time he lit a cigarette, he would narrow his eyes at the orange flame which would spring up. Something as small as that spark of heat could cause such undoable destruction, could cause somebody to perish just like _that_.

Once his unreasonable anger for fire faded, he began despising life.

It’s not fair, is it? Stan had spent nineteen years dreaming of getting _out_ of South Park, moving somewhere else, starting a career. Football, hopefully. It had been Kenny who listened to every word of his elaborate plans. Stan possessed an ambition which was rare for the area he lived in. They both hated the place an equal amount, but Kenny had never even thought about leaving. That was where he lived, where he always would live. Whereas Stan had already devised a plan for his future by they were fifteen.

Everything was going to plan, as well. Stan was well on his way to achieving that dream life with Kyle, who he was head over heels for.

Kenny was angry. Not just for Stan’s sake, but for his own. Kenny had finally opened up, finally told somebody about his shitty life, finally grew to _like_ another person. Years of friendship, of joking about, of relying on each other, having aimless chats about the future had been snatched away as if it was nothing.

Once the overmastering desire to ruin things faded a few weeks later, Kenny quietly tried to resume his life. It didn’t work very well. Going to sleep proved a challenge, as well did waking up. The gap which would have usually been filled by Stan seemed bigger than ever. He imagined Kyle was feeling much the same. But the last time they saw each other was at the funeral. Even then, conversation had been forced, Kyle’s eyes constantly swimming with tears which hadn’t fallen yet. Without Stan bringing them together, there wasn’t really a need to maintain friendship.

A whole month afterwards, the whole _I’m perfectly fine_ façade crumbled, and Kenny finally let himself lose it. Realisation was heavy as it sank, settling at the bottom of his stomach, making him feel sick. He did the only thing he could think of – he started a fight in a bar and hit some stranger until his fist was throbbing. Then consequently got hit back harder by the guy’s friends, got punched and kicked until he was aching all over. As he was handcuffed in the back of a cop car, Kenny relished the metallic flavour dripping from his lips, but the thrill wasn’t there. Maybe it was the absence of a grinning face getting handcuffed next to him.

The officer had sighed, fixing him with a look which was pitying and annoyed at the same time. Kenny had looked back, feeling much like a child under the gaze, the repetitive chorus of _I want my best friend_ echoing through his head.  

Kyle had arrived at the police station, red hair slightly dishevelled. Dread and excitement jolted Kenny at the sight. It was late. Probably gone midnight. Kyle should have been asleep, but he didn’t look like he slept much anymore, not if Kenny judged by the shadows circling his eyes. They dampened the enthusiastic quality about them.

Kyle looked … empty. Much unlike the witty, smiling redhead which Stan had introduced him to all those months ago.

And when they had gotten back, it had been Kyle who bandaged up his swollen, bloody knuckles. It had been Kyle who offered him pyjamas. It had been Kyle who offered to wash his bloody clothes.

It had been Kyle taking care of him, when Kenny _knew_ that it should be the other way around.

 _I don’t deserve this_ , thought Kenny, leaning into a soft palm. He didn’t deserve to be looked after at all. Where was he when Kyle needed this? Stan was his boyfriend. They were going to get married and have kids and stay together until they’re old. That was part of their plan. They lived the same life in the same house, and yet Kyle seemed to be getting by.

The same wasn’t said for Kenny.

Kyle probably had other friends to comfort him, but they only knew Stan as Kyle’s boyfriend. None of them knew _him._ None of them would ever know quite how much the absence of Stan Marsh impacts life as you know it. Kyle probably needed somebody who actually understood.

“I’m sorry,” blurted Kenny, his voice thick and strangled.

Kyle paused in his movements of wiping blood away from Kenny’s cheek and looked at him, his eyes flaring up into a gentle sort of annoyance, a strange combination which wouldn’t suit anybody else.

“It’s not me you should apologise to,” he replied, under the impression that Kenny’s talking about the fight. “Maybe if you apologised to the other guy, you could –“

“I’m not talking about that,” Kenny interjected, somewhat irritably. He doesn’t want to be lectured like a kid.

“Oh,” Kyle said. “Why are you sorry, then?”

Kenny swallowed. He hadn’t anticipated having to explain himself. In the moment, all he had thought of was the overwhelming guilt, all he had thought of saying was an apology.

Several seconds passed, filled with expectant silence, until Kenny managed to say, “For going.”

Kyle furrowed his brows, and Kenny knew he would have to elaborate. He didn’t want to. Talking was never his specialty. That’s why him and Stan had gotten along so well - Stan preferred to voice his opinions, let people know he was there, and Kenny remained to himself, mulling over his thoughts as they went through his head and never telling anybody much about them.

At first, his sentence came out fragmented, a jumble of sighs and nonsensical words. Kyle raised his eyebrows and Kenny tried again -  his words were quiet, and it was a miracle that they were heard. But with each word he said, feelings bubbled up closer to the surface. By his third sentence, Kenny’s words had become too fast, borderline incoherent, slurring together due to emotions wracking his body. There was guilt, primarily. Then there was desperation, which was slowly clawing its way up onto his chest, its weight constricting his breathing.

“Kenny,” Kyle interrupted. His words slowly trailed off until he was once again silent, and only then did Kyle speak. “Don’t feel bad for that. You had to deal with it yourself. And, judging by this,” he gestured to the blood which was trickling down Kenny’s chin, onto his neck, “you aren’t very good at it.”

“Doesn’t _matter,_ ” Kenny said, frustrated. “You and … you … were _together_!”

“Dude, you knew him for years. He was your best friend.”

“Don’t do that,” he said. Kyle’s image was becoming wobbly, blurred by prickling tears. That was the third time he had cried in the space of a day. “You make out like … like you don’t _deserve_ to be sad. You do. More than anybody. More than _I do,_ that’s for fucking certain _._ ”

Kyle wiped away one of Kenny’s escaped tears with the tissue. It stung against the cut on his cheek, but he didn’t wince, because having Kyle feel any more sympathy for him is not what he wanted.

“Look,” Kyle said, “go to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. It’s late, and you need rest.”

“I can’t –“

“Here.” Kyle peeled back the covers, and a bloody, tearful, exhausted Kenny couldn’t resist temptation. He clambered under a warm duvet, feeling much like a child being tucked in.

As his head hit the pillow, Kenny was hit with a wave of fatigue. He could have passed out at that very moment, but he forced his eyes to stay open, just so he could look at Kyle for a few more seconds. He felt bad. Kyle was probably undisturbed, and Kenny had woken him through starting a fight because he couldn’t handle his own emotions, and he would have to sleep somewhere else, with Kenny taking up all the space.

Deliberately, he shifted over, leaving enough room for another person if it was needed. Then, he let himself fall asleep. 

…..

When he woke up the next morning, it was bizarre to wake up to the smell of breakfast. He wondered who was cooking it, because he lived alone, and then the events of the previous night came flooding back, partly due to a throbbing pain in his right cheek. He was at Kyle’s house, not his own. Kenny recalls his display of emotion the night before. In retrospect, it seemed ridiculous. He felt fine again, as he usually did.

Kenny regained composure and forced all those emotions down, deep down, burying them underneath everything else and ignoring them completely. The only reminder that he had broken down quite like he had were healing cuts, surrounded with purple bruises, on his cheek. If it weren’t for them, nobody would have guessed that anything out of the ordinary happened.

He stumbled downstairs and was greeted by the sight of Kyle, looking slightly jaded, but still completely functioning as he poured two cups of coffee. The first thing he asked was _how are you feeling?_ That could only have been expected. It wasn’t normal for most people to break down one night and be completely fine the next day, but Kenny hadn’t been blessed with the average capability to handle emotions.

Kyle set a cup of coffee on the table and gestured to it. “That’s yours.”

“I didn’t ask for one,” Kenny said. It was alien, this feeling of being taken care of, and he wasn’t sure whether it’s a feeling he liked or not.

“You don’t have to drink it. Just in case you want it,” Kyle replies plainly.

He did end up drinking it. He also stayed for breakfast, then didn’t leave the house until his clothes were clean and dry. That happened to be much later in the day, and in the four hours he spent eating and talking, Kenny learned that Kyle was handling life just fine. Yeah, he’s always been strong-minded and stuff, but he’d just guessed that losing the love of your life has some kind of effect on your wellbeing.

When Kenny finally left, something was different. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe, breaking down in front of Kyle strengthened the flimsy imitation of friendship they’d had before that. Or maybe it was because he had slept in his bed, and he’s fairly sure that Kyle crawled under the covers along with him at some point.

Whatever it was, it changed everything.

…..

By the tail end of winter, when Stan’s been gone for five months, Kenny is spending more time at Kyle’s place than he does at his own.

Kyle always says _gone,_ as if Stan’s going to come out of hiding soon. He acts like the door will swing open and Stan will stride back in with several bags, hanging his coat up on the hanger in the hallway, cursing at the frigid wind. Kyle never says the dreaded words – he never mentions anything to do with _it_ \- but whenever he does talk about Stan, his voice descends into a subdued murmur.

Kenny doesn’t use such gentle words. He never usually talks about it anyway, but when he does, he’s not careful and sensitive. There’s no point avoiding facts because nothing will change. He’s dead and he isn’t ever going to wake up.

People look at him if he’s crazy - _how can you say that about your best friend?_

It’s much like the aghast stares he received at the funeral, when he stared impassively at the floor for the whole service, barely flinching when somebody offered their condolences. But they don’t know that Kenny’s preferred method of dealing with things isn’t _actually_ dealing with them. Ignoring them seems to work just as effectively. Then, when they build up to the point of anguish, he will let them out through hitting something or smashing something, channelling everything into fury.

The bouts of self-destruction, driven by an influx of unbearable emotions, are becoming less frequent as time passes.  Kenny’s grief comes and goes in intense bursts, every once in a while. Then it’s gone again.

Whereas Kyle’s sadness is constant, each day wearing him down a little further. He has his turns at emotional outbursts, too, but they are considerably less overwhelming. He just lets himself cry, tears dripping down his cheeks. He always tries to hide it when it happens. Kenny will always try his hardest to say something reassuring, but it never comes out how he quite intended, because he’s not good with words or feelings. Usually, he just rubs his arm. Once, Kenny had enveloped him in a hug – something which he isn’t accustomed to, because his parents didn’t really _do_ hugs – and was immediately overpowered by the feeling of contact.

The hype about hugging, or touching, or any of that comforting shit had never resonated with him. And although it’s supposed to be Kenny comforting Kyle, his skin was so warm, his skinny arms somehow so secure, that Kenny finds himself never wanting to let go.

Afterwards, there’s an ache in his chest he can’t quite place.

It lingers for a long time.


	2. you kept me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coping isn't easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks if you read :)

 

On the morning of the nine-month anniversary of the accident, Kenny wakes up next to Kyle. The redhead is already awake, running his fingers through his hair. Probably has been for hours, reflecting to this exact day nine whole months ago, the moment when he got the call. 

They exchange a few pleasantries. He asks Kenny how he slept, Kenny asks him the same. It’s not until after a long minute that Kenny rolls out of the bed, pulling the covers off himself. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, all the bones in his back crunching as he does so. The night before, he had thrown his clothes on the floor, but now they have been neatly piled on the chair in a corner. He doesn’t remember doing that. It must have been Kyle. 

“Don’t do that,” Kyle says, wincing at the sound. “It’s bad for you.”

Kenny pulls on his trousers, being as quick as he can, very aware of Kyle watching him. He hates being undressed in front of anyone. The only person who had ever seen him shirtless, the only person who had seen the marks and scars littering his back, was Stan. Even now, he sleeps with a shirt on, just in case anybody catches sight of him. The scars are jagged and ugly, blemishing otherwise smooth skin, forever serving as a reminder how shit his life is. 

“It causes arthritis,” Kyle tacks on, smiling as he swings himself off the bed, already fully clothed. 

_ No, it doesn’t,  _ thinks Kenny. It takes him a few seconds to remember that Kyle requires an actual, verbal response in order to create conversation. Usually, he doesn’t care if people think he’s rude for ignoring them. 

But this is Kyle. And if there’s one thing Kenny does when it comes to Kyle, it’s care. 

“It’s just air in the joints,” he says. “No long-term effects or anything.”

He’s not sure if that’s a sufficient enough response. Thankfully, Kyle seems satisfied with it, murmuring something about him being stubborn. 

Once he’s pulled his belt through the loops and done it up, Kenny digs for some money in the back pocket of his jeans. Amongst a bunch of random shit, he brandishes money, all crumpled up. He holds it out in Kyle’s direction, who just looks at his hand, like he’s holding something alien. 

“It’s your choice, right? I chose last time.”  

Kyle seems to understand the purpose of the money and furrows his eyebrows. “We don’t need to go out. There’s stuff here. I can –“

“Kyle,” he interjects quietly. Kyle looks pissed off for being interrupted, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. Kenny resists the urge to lean forwards and smooth it with his fingers. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Dude, it’s expensive. You worked for that money, you can just …”

“Stop worrying about me. Just let me take you out for breakfast.” Kenny pushes the money further towards Kyle, indicating him to take it. “Okay?” 

It’s with great hesitance that Kyle takes the money, making a point of sighing just to prove how against the idea he is. But despite his stubbornness, he lets it happen. 

The place Kyle chooses is close to the house. It’s not very costly and Kenny thinks that Stan only chose it because he refuses to choose anywhere expensive for Kenny’s sake. He wants to remind Kyle he’s got a job. He has enough money to go out for breakfast, for fucks sake. 

It’s times like these that Kenny wonders how him and Stan even worked together. Stan was sort of stupid, in the nicest way possible, so serene in his self-assurance. He just did things without ever really considering the consequences. Whereas Kyle is constantly alert and smart and so fucking different to Stan it’s almost funny. 

However, Kyle seemed to like him more than anybody.  _ Love  _ him. It was obvious. Just by those little glances or touches. Whenever Stan would lean across and kiss Kyle’s temple, he wouldn’t be able to stop smiling. Or that wide grin which he would adopt whenever Stan brushed a hand through his hair, the hair which he never let anybody else really touch. 

“It doesn’t feel like nine months,” comments Kyle. His tone is casual, too casual to be anything but forced. “You know? It feels … longer. Like years ago.”

Kenny nods, even though he inwardly disagrees. It feels like yesterday. He can clearly remember the call. He remembers being so shocked that no words, not even a  _ yes  _ or  _ no _ , escaped him. It doesn’t feel like years ago. In fact, he’s half expecting to see a tall, pale figure appear from the shadows, take a seat next to Kyle and say something sarcastic. Kenny always has to remind himself that Stan is dead. Gone. Never coming back. 

“Nine months,” he repeats. “That’s … what? Three hundred days?”

“Two hundred and something,” Kenny corrects quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on his coffee. 

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

It’s only after a silence that Kenny finally meets Kyle’s gaze. It’s been focused on him for a while now. 

“Do you miss him?” Kyle asks. Before Kenny can reply, he adds, “I mean, you sort of … don’t talk about it. I never know what you’re thinking.”

Right at this moment, Kenny is thinking about Kyle’s hands, which are wrapped around a cappuccino. The nails are short, bitten down. Kenny is thankful that Kyle isn’t entirely faultless. Those little things stop him from becoming boring in his perfection. 

“Dude, that’s a pretty stupid question,” Kenny says. It’s said quietly, without much venom. He cautiously shoots a glance to Kyle, afraid that his feelings may have been hurt by that, but he still wears a slight smile. 

“Sorry. I dunno, I guess I was just used to … to hearing everything.” Then, impossibly softer, “I can’t figure you out.” 

“I’m not complicated,” Kenny tells him, feeling himself go tense and uncomfortable at this topic of conversation. “I just keep to myself, because half the things I think aren’t … nice.”

Kyle furrows his eyebrows even further, deepening that little crease which appears when he’s thinking about something.

“You’re nice enough to me.”

“You’re different,” Kenny retorts. 

As soon as he says it, shock hits him, followed by a deep, sinking regret. Fuck. Now the words have been said aloud, he will begin to believe them. That annoying chant in his head -  which reassures him that he  _ doesn’t  _ kind of have weird thoughts about his dead best friend’s boyfriend and their relationship is comfort-based only – begins to fade.

“How?” Kyle asks gently, goading a response. He’s always been one for long, meaningful chats, which is one of the many, many reasons they aren’t suited to each other.

“I can’t describe it well, but, you know.  _ Nice. _ ”

“Nice?” Kyle says, snorting. “Is that the best you can do?”

A smile cracks through Kenny’s sombre mask, mirroring the grin plastered on the boy opposite him. It feels unnatural to smile like this, as if he’s stretching something that shouldn’t be moved. It almost feels like he’s tearing his skin. The last time he can remember smiling is before Stan died. 

“Kind, then. Sweet.” He’s never been the best at English. It was one of his worst subjects at school. But there are endless words he can use to describe Kyle -  they seem to be falling from his lips before he can stop them, just a tirade of thoughts from the past few months, when the affection began to settle in. “Strong minded. Confident.” He resists the urge to add on  _ fucking gorgeous.  _ “Brave. Opinionated. Accepting.”

And although he is nowhere near finished, Kenny trails of into silence. Saying anymore would make this uncomfortable. Honestly, the look that Kyle has fixed him with now is pretty uncomfortable, all sharp yet kind at the same time.

The conversation continues about something unimportant from then on. It’s mainly Kyle, rambling on about something mildly interesting. At some point, their fingers accidentally brush, and Kenny swears he’s going to be thinking about that quick, warm contact for months. 

......

A whole year. A whole year has passed since Stan died.

For a memorial, they just get together with some of Stan’s other friends. Kenny wasn’t really aware there were any other people in his life besides him and Kyle. Childishly, he’d just assumed that their  _ best friend  _ title would last into adulthood and never really end. 

Anyway, it turns out that there are others. The group of boys who apparently came to Stan’s funeral are led by a boy called Craig, who has black hair tucked under a hat. He’s somewhat familiar. Kenny reckons he’s one of the boys who murmured a quick  _ sorry for your loss  _ before disappearing back to their very unaffected lives. The other two have plain faces and their voices seem to fall underneath Craig’s nasal voice, who decides to reflect on fond memories with Stan, memories which Kenny doesn’t ever remember being mentioned. Kenny just lets Kyle lead the conversations for him. He’s good at that, coming up with intelligent remarks and funny comments. Kenny remains a steady figure behind his shoulder, not moving from his side unless it’s to get another drink.

In the back of the cab on the way home, Kyle lets his head loll on Kenny’s shoulder. It’s very late and he knows that the redhead was awake for hours the night previous, tossing and turning, thinking about where they all were exactly a year ago.

“Are you okay?” he mumbles quietly.

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “Are you?”

He nods, then remembers Kyle isn’t looking at him, so follows it up with a quick, “Yeah.”

“Are you … staying over tonight?” is asked tentatively, almost worried for the answer. They are practically living together at this point. Kenny’s got his own place – a stupidly tiny bedsit, which is painfully close to Stan’s childhood house – but he might as well just move in with Kyle. He’s spending enough time here, after all. There must be two nights a week not spent in each other’s company. Barely even that.

“Do you want me to?”

There’s a noise, and it takes a few seconds to realised that Kyle laughed. There’s not much time to figure out why, as he’s already saying, “Of course I do. You don’t even have to ask that.”

Fingers find his, and Kenny squeezes comfortingly, ignoring the warmth which is spreading through his chest. 

The subject of Stan is very, very slowly descending into something of the past. Already, Kenny can’t quite remember what shape his nose was, or if his eyes were darker or lighter blue. That guilts him more than fucking anything. It’s his best friend and he’s forgetting everything about him already. If it’s like this after a year, what about five years? Ten years? Would he even  _ remember  _ Stan at that point?

“Dude, of course you will,” Kyle reassures him. This is one of the many nights which they are wrapped under the covers of the bed, just drifting off to sleep, having aimless conversation. He doesn’t really flinch away from the subject like he would have months ago, although Kenny is aware of his voice becoming slightly tighter. “It’s difficult to forget him.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s mad to think …  that it’s like, three hundred and sixty-five days ago.” Kyle always measures time in days. Makes it feel further away, more like a distant memory than only a year ago. “Exactly that time ago, I would have been in this house, just …”

“Happy,” Kenny finishes for him, keeping his voice gentle, not wanting to shatter the quiet.

“Mhm. I was.” There’s a movement, the sheet being tugged around for a second. Kenny opens one eye to figure out what is happening, until he sees the dark outline of Kyle’s eyes facing him. “But I’m … nowhere near as sad anymore.”

“What?”

“This time eleven months ago, I was so sad.” Kyle sighs raggedly, as if he’s aged thirty years by even talking about this. “I missed him. So much. He was so vocal, never really had an off switch, so the silence was … horrible.”

“Kyle,” Kenny says hoarsely, but he is cut off.

“I loved him so much and then … then he was just  _ gone. _ You know? It was so final. No big goodbye.” He trails off for a second, thinking. His voice is mainly thoughtful, sadness creeping in. “I loved him.  _ Love  _ him. But … I’m not  _ grieving  _ anymore.”

There’s a feather light touch on his side. Kenny jumps, only relaxing when he figures out that it’s Kyle’s hand. 

“Thankyou.”

“For what?”

“For staying with me. Dealing with me,” Kyle says, even though it’s so clearly the other way around. Kyle wasn’t having major meltdowns, getting into fights, not knowing whether it was blood or tears dripping down his chin. Kenny was. But there’s no arguing. The redhead boy is stubborn and will never admit to being the innocent party – it’s always his fault, somehow. “Helping me. You know, Kenny, you say you aren’t nice, but …”

Where is he going with this? It doesn’t feel like a sensible conversation to be having, especially not when Kyle’s still a little tipsy and emotions are running high. There’s something daunting about it all. Kyle is very close to him, saying all these kind things, and he might do something crazy and stupid and impulsive, like act on these feelings. These feelings which are bubbling deep down, threatening to burst, and he knows this will end in another breakdown if he doesn’t sort his shit out soon. 

“I always thought you and Stan were exactly the same. You just said less than him. But you aren’t.”

“Kyle,” Kenny says again, but he isn’t sure what he intended to finish the sentence with. 

“You’re different than him. So fucking different.”

It is said like a compliment.

And then something completely and totally bizarre happens. Kyle closes the small gap between their faces, lightly touching Kenny’s lips. It’s barely even a kiss. It’s not returned. But then just as it’s happened, Kyle is rolling over, already drifting into unconsciousness.

………

He is bleeding and he is crying. The mirror is on the floor in shards, having smashed at the force of his fist. Blood is dripping from his cut-up knuckles, down his arms, onto the floor. But he doesn’t care. All he can think about is how much he misses Stan. His best friend. His  _ best fucking friend _ and now he’s not here and he wasn’t even fucking  _ buried _ . He was burned, his ashes were scattered, so there’s not even a grave or anything. Besides from grainy, shitty quality pictures, there’s no memory Stanley Marsh ever even existed.

Clutching his bleeding hand, Kenny falls to the floor, holding back sobs and dropping the picture in the same instant. It flutters across the room and lands face down, the smiling children being smothered by the floor. 

This is why he never likes to spend time at his own place. It was a complete accident when he’d discovered the picture peering at him from under the bed. He doesn’t remember it ever being taken – it’s him and Stan as kids, when Kenny would never be seen without that god-awful orange parka. His blonde hair is peeking from underneath the hood and he is noticeably smiling, eyes crinkled, being pulled into a rough, boyish hug by Stan. When he had found it, he hadn’t quite believed who he was looking at. They couldn’t have been any older than eleven at that point. That’s the first time in months and months he’s seen that familiar face and the shock had struck him like an arrow, and it’s still deeply embedded in his chest.

Stan is never ever coming back.

The grinning boy in the picture has no idea. 

Eleven-year-old Stan had no idea that his life would be cut short. He just assumed he would live until he was an old man and then would die peacefully. Even Kenny, who never really took an imaginative approach to life, thought the same. Of course, he knew that life was unfair and unpredictable, but he just guessed that the rules didn’t apply to Stan. Life would be a breeze for him. He would have waltzed through problems, gotten everything he ever wanted. Would have been happy.  _ Should have  _ been happy.

He’s not one for crying. It’s a waste of time and leaves him feeling spectacularly shitty afterwards, so he always tries to just skip that part. However, he can’t now. It’s impossible to not cry, not with this crippling rush of emotions which seems to be squeezing his insides, forcing horrible, choking noises from his mouth.

Now he’s full on crying, like a girl, whilst curled up on his bedroom floor. He’s half glad that Kyle isn’t here today to witness this embarrassing display. Kenny’s still not managed to master the ability to regulate emotions, even though he’s two years into adulthood. Kyle has everything under his control. Kenny is sort of stumbling through life and just hoping that everything won’t come crashing down around him. 

Eventually, his knuckles stop bleeding and his tears dry up. It would be impossible for him to cry anymore.

Turns out he’s wrong about that too. 

When Kyle finishes work at five, Kenny walks across town to his house. The second he opens the door it’s obvious there’s something wrong – Kenny’s eyes are rimmed with red and his knuckles covered in dried blood. The second Kyle asks if he’s alright, Kenny feels hot tears begin to stab at his eyes, threatening to fall. 

“Yeah,” he lies hoarsely, blinking away tears. “I just … came over.”

“And you’re covered in  _ blood _ .” As he lets Kenny past, Kyle sounds half-annoyed, half-concerned. Pale fingers seize his bloody knuckles, examining them. “What happened? Did you get into a fight?”

“No,” he denies, voice thick. “I just … hit a mirror. It smashed.”

“Why? What happened?” Kyle says, his voice still demanding. 

Sometimes, he wishes Kyle would be a little gentler with his voice, but Kenny has grown to know him over the past year, better than he ever would have thought he would. He’s just panicking because he’s worried, hating that feeling of not knowing what’s wrong.

Then, softer: “Kenny?”

Kenny digs deep into his pocket and pulls out the photo. It’s bent and folded, probably ruined beyond recognition. On the way here, he had been adamant to keep his mind off it, just in case that unbearable weight of anguish came back down. But now, as Kyle unfolds the picture, he’s forced to look at it again – forced to stare into his own unrecognisable face, forced to remember those days.

Hazel eyes have since wandered from the picture to him. 

“I found it,” Kenny says, offering some type of explanation under Kyle’s gaze. “In some box under my bed. And I just …” 

He trails of into nothingness, unable to continue without sounding utterly pathetic.  _ I found it and I had an emotional breakdown _ . Kyle seems to, thankfully, understand - the worry fuelled aggravation fades quickly, and Kenny feels himself being pulled into a suffocating embrace.

Although the arms around his neck are skinny, they still have a lot of strength behind them. Kenny returns the embrace with equal force, recalling how much he likes it when he is hugged. Probably because he was touched starved as a kid. Tears start to form again, and he doesn’t bother to hold them back, openly crying into Kyle’s shoulder, feeling hopeless. He’s not sure why he’s crying now, whether it’s still because of that picture or due to the person he is holding. He is so close to Kyle, close enough to feel every intake and exhale of breath, close enough to feel his hammering heart against his ribcage.

After a while, Kyle pulls away. His own eyes are glimmering with unfallen tears. 

“I miss him,” Kenny manages, voice raw. “I miss him  _ so  _ … so  _ much _ .”

Then Kyle’s face is unbearably close to his, and the temptation is nearly overpowering. How he would  _ love  _ to lean in and press a hard, firm kiss on those lips. He can guess that Kyle wouldn’t like that all that much – after all, he is still in love with Stan, even a year later. 

Kenny’s just Stan’s emotionally volatile best friend who Kyle is forced to look after, like he’s some kid that nobody wants custody of. 

“I miss him too, Ken.” The picture is presented again, and Kyle’s eyes don’t leave Stan, running a finger over his face. “How old were you here?”

“Uh, eleven. I think.”

“Why is half your face hidden?” Kyle asks, his focus switching to the other boy in the photo.

He shrugs. “Not sure. I used to hide my face.”

“Why?”

Another shrug, this one not followed with an explanation.

“Do you want to keep this?”

Kenny shakes his head. In fact, he wants to burn it, never have to look at his naïve reflection again.

His knuckles are bandaged by Kyle at the kitchen table and he is invited to stay the night. However, Kenny can’t help but think that Kyle is only doing it because he feels bad. Although he very much  _ doesn’t _ want to go home and have to clean up shards of glass, if that’s what was wanted, Kenny would.

“You’re lucky, you know. If you’d gotten glass in your hand, then you would have had to go to hospital. Without stitches, that’ll probably scar, you know. It’s good that you didn’t get glass in it, because – “

“Kyle,” he says, effectively cutting off the other boy’s rambling. “You don’t have to.”

“Have to what?”

“Have to … you know,  _ look after _ me. If you don’t want me here, just say the word, and I’ll leave.”

Kyle scowls. “When did I say that?”

“You didn’t. Which is why … I’m just reminding you. I’m not your responsibility. I can, uh …” He’s about to  _ deal with my emotions,  _ but they both know that’s not true, so he reframes his statement. “I’m an adult. I have my own house and stuff.”

“Yeah. And?”

Kenny nearly rolls his eyes at the stubbornness. He doesn’t. At the moment, his eyes are puffy and hurting, and rolling them seems like way too much effort. 

“Kenny, I want you here,” Kyle continues. Sensing Kenny’s impending question of ‘why?’, he adds, “Because you’re fun. You’re company. I don’t want to be stuck in this house all on my own.” Kyle reaches for his uninjured hand across the table, gripping his fingers firmly. “Do you want to be here?”

“Of  _ course _ .”

“Good. Then shut up about it.”

Sourly, Kenny follows the instruction, not saying anything else on the matter. It feels like something has lifted from him. He is  _ wanted  _ here;  _ Kyle _ wants him here.

That night, they sit underneath a blanket whilst watching Netflix. This is the sort of thing which Kenny isn’t familiar with -  just chilling out, picking at snacks. Even though Stan was his best friend, they never spent time together like  _ this _ . They would always go out. Kenny never realised quite how comforting it is to have somebody else right next to you, even if there’s no touching. 

That’s something he’s not familiar with either. He gets sex, he  _ likes _ sex, so when it comes to completely platonic relationships, he struggles for things to do. If Kyle was his boyfriend, his hand would be inching across the waistband of his pyjamas, dipping lower and teasing. Kenny would attach his mouth to the pale skin, tracing the few freckles he has on his neck, up onto the sharp bone of his jaw. He would kiss him. He would leave a ring of bruises on his neck. He would climb over and straddle him, push their bodies flush together …

Shit. He mentally kicks himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about that at all. That’s disrespecting Stan’s honour or some shit, isn’t it? You aren’t supposed to disrespect the dead because they’ll come back and haunt you as a ghost. Kenny half expecting some transparent ghost-version of Stan to appear in front of him and tell him to get his hands off his boyfriend. 

“Are you okay?” Kyle asks, startling him. 

“What?”

“You looked really freaked out. What’s up?” Kyle shifts a little closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Thinking about the picture again?”

_ No. Thinking about fucking you. _

“Yeah,” he lies. “I just … want my best friend, I guess.”

Kyle nudges him gently. “Dude, I’ll be your best friend. I mean, you spend enough time here as it is, we might as well be.” 

“Well, if you insist,” Kenny says. He attempts to sound sarcastic. He ends up sounding sad. To correct himself, he forces a grin and says, “But you have to promise that you won’t have other best friends.”

“Promise?” Kyle asks. He sees right through Kenny’s  _ I’m-fine _ facade. That shows in his sympathetic eyes. “Okay, dude. I promise I won’t have other best friends. You have to promise too.”

With a smile and feeling very warm inside, he promises, linking pinky fingers with Kyle. The contact lasts for a long time. And even when their conversation has finished, they continue watching Netflix but don’t let go of one another’s fingers. It’s like holding hands just … a lot more childish. That’s all Kenny can really handle at the moment. Otherwise he’s going to break.


End file.
